I’ve been to hundreds of shows in my life, but nothing could have prepared me for the night Morrissey turned a potential tragedy into one of the most powerful concerts I’ve ever witnessed.
In the days leading up to the September 2025 performance, rumors were swirling that the FBI had uncovered credible threats against Morrissey’s life. It wasn’t just the usual social media chatter either—major outlets reported that federal agents had confirmed the danger and quietly beefed up security around the venue.
As someone who’s followed Morrissey’s career for decades, I knew he’s no stranger to controversy or drama. But this was different. This wasn’t about a sharp lyric or an angry tweet. This was about someone wanting to silence a voice that has comforted millions, including me, with songs about loneliness, alienation, and the fragile beauty of existence.
Walking into the venue that night, the atmosphere was unlike any other show I’ve attended. There was an uneasy buzz in the air—a mixture of excitement, fear, and stubborn defiance. Security was tight. Bags were checked with extra care. Metal detectors beeped and guards scanned faces like hawks. And yet, no one turned away. If anything, the tension seemed to bond the crowd together. We were here for Morrissey, and nothing was going to stop that.
A Light That Never Goes Out: The Perfect, Haunting Opening
When the house lights dimmed and the stage lit up, a hush swept through the audience. Then those unmistakable opening chords rang out—“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.”
Of all the songs in his legendary catalog, this was the one to start with. A Smiths classic steeped in dark romanticism, it’s a song about love and death, about finding someone so essential that even dying together in a car crash would be a kind of triumph.
“And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die…”
Hearing Morrissey sing those words on a night when the FBI had warned of real danger sent chills down my spine. It was as if he were staring mortality in the face and laughing. No speech, no preamble—just the defiant beauty of a song that has comforted outsiders for nearly four decades. The crowd erupted into a roar of cathartic joy, singing every word as if it might be our last.
This was Morrissey’s genius in action: taking fear and turning it into art, giving death a melody that somehow made it less terrifying.
The Setlist: A Journey Through Darkness and Light
After that unforgettable opener, the show unfolded like a carefully curated mixtape of his solo career and Smiths classics. The setlist was a masterclass in pacing, nostalgia, and emotional punch:
Setlist
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There Is a Light That Never Goes Out (The Smiths)
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Suedehead
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Alma Matters
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How Soon Is Now? (The Smiths)
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Lost
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Half a Person (The Smiths)
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First of the Gang to Die
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Shoplifters of the World Unite (The Smiths)
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Life Is a Pigsty
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Everyday Is Like Sunday
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I Know It’s Over (The Smiths)
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All the Lazy Dykes
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The Loop
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Let Me Kiss You
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Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me (The Smiths)
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Jack the Ripper
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I Will See You in Far-Off Places
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Encore: Irish Blood, English Heart
Every song felt like it had been chosen with intention, a meditation on mortality, resilience, and the strange comfort of melancholy.
Solo Classics and Smiths Gems
Following the opener, Morrissey slid effortlessly into “Suedehead,” one of his earliest solo hits. The jangling guitars and bittersweet melody were a reminder of his ability to bridge the gap between pop accessibility and lyrical complexity. The crowd swayed, arms raised, voices united on the aching refrain, “Why do you come here? And why do you hang around?”
Next came “Alma Matters,” a late-’90s gem that’s often overlooked but felt perfectly at home in this set. Its message of staying true to oneself—“It’s my life to ruin my own way”—seemed especially pointed given the night’s circumstances. Morrissey stood center stage, elegant as ever in a sharp suit, his voice rich with both irony and sincerity.
Then came the seismic moment of “How Soon Is Now?” That iconic tremolo guitar shimmered across the venue like an electrical storm. If “There Is a Light” is a romantic death wish, “How Soon Is Now?” is the ultimate outsider anthem—a cry of isolation that somehow unites everyone who’s ever felt alone. The crowd became a single organism, swaying to the hypnotic beat, singing along to the immortal line, “I am human and I need to be loved.”
The newer track “Lost” brought a quieter, more introspective energy, before Morrissey reached back into The Smiths’ catalog for “Half a Person.” Hearing that gentle, self-effacing ballad—“Call me morbid, call me pale”—in a room full of devoted fans felt like a secret shared among kindred spirits.
Mortality Front and Center
If anyone still doubted that Morrissey was leaning into the theme of mortality, “First of the Gang to Die” erased all doubt. Its tale of a doomed hero—handsome, reckless, and inevitably tragic—felt almost eerily autobiographical given the night’s shadow of danger. The irony wasn’t lost on the crowd, who cheered the chorus with a mix of joy and defiance.
From there, he launched into “Shoplifters of the World Unite,” a Smiths anthem of rebellion that had the audience pumping fists in solidarity. It was followed by “Life Is a Pigsty,” an epic meditation on suffering and survival that stretched into a hypnotic, near-religious experience. As Morrissey crooned “Life is a pigsty, life is a pigsty, and if you don’t know this then what do you know?” the room seemed to hold its breath. In a world where threats of violence had almost silenced him, this song felt like a prayer and a provocation.
The mood lightened—just slightly—with “Everyday Is Like Sunday,” his apocalyptic seaside anthem. The crowd sang along to every word, transforming its lonely lament into a communal hymn. Then came one of the night’s emotional peaks: “I Know It’s Over.”
This Smiths ballad of unrequited love and existential despair was almost unbearably beautiful. Morrissey’s voice, still remarkably strong, carried every ounce of heartbreak as he sang, “Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head.” On a night when death hovered like a phantom, it was devastating.
Deep Cuts and Defiance
Morrissey isn’t one to simply coast on hits, and he proved it with a string of deeper cuts that kept the diehards rapt. “All the Lazy Dykes” brought a wry, sharp commentary on conformity. “The Loop” turned the room into a rockabilly dance party, its rollicking beat offering a brief respite from the evening’s darker themes.
“Let Me Kiss You” followed, its tender plea for connection striking a delicate balance between vulnerability and bravado.
Then came another Smiths jewel: “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me.” The slow, mournful build gave way to a sweeping chorus that felt like a collective exhale. Morrissey’s voice trembled with raw emotion as he sang of longing and loneliness, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes.
But he wasn’t done confronting danger. “Jack the Ripper” slashed through the tension with its gothic menace, Morrissey leaning into the sinister narrative with theatrical flair. “I Will See You in Far-Off Places” closed the main set, its lyrics about distant reunions and eternal connections landing with particular poignancy.
An Encore of Pride and Power
After a brief exit, Morrissey returned for a single encore: “Irish Blood, English Heart.”
The politically charged anthem, with its sharp critique of nationalism and hypocrisy, was the perfect closer. It was a declaration of identity and survival, a reminder that Morrissey will not be silenced by threats, critics, or governments. The crowd roared its approval, singing along as if to send a message to anyone who wished him harm: you cannot kill the music.
The Man and the Myth
Throughout the night, Morrissey remained both commanding and enigmatic. He spoke sparingly, offering only a few wry remarks about “the obvious” without ever mentioning the FBI directly. Instead, he let the music carry the weight. His voice—rich, resonant, and unmistakable—proved that despite age, controversy, and danger, he remains one of the greatest singers of his generation.
His band was equally impeccable, delivering faithful yet energized renditions of classics while adding subtle flourishes that kept things fresh. The lighting was moody and dramatic, bathing the stage in deep blues and reds that underscored the night’s themes of death and defiance.
A Night to Remember
As the final notes of Irish Blood, English Heart faded, I looked around at the crowd—faces glowing with relief, admiration, and something like triumph. We had come together in the shadow of violence and walked away uplifted.
This wasn’t just a concert. It was a statement of resilience, a reminder that art can outlast fear. Morrissey, ever the poet of the alienated, had turned a night of potential tragedy into an unforgettable celebration of life, death, and the unbreakable bond between artist and audience.
Walking out into the night, I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. The FBI warnings, the tight security, the tension—they were all real. But so was the music, and the music won.
There is a light that never goes out, and on this night in September 2025, Morrissey proved it.